Independence Day
by jeanie2914
Summary: Neal's completed his sentence and it's his last day at White Collar. He should be happy but he's not. He's gaining his freedom but is he losing something that means even more? Just a quick holiday story :)
1. Chapter 1

**Independence Day**

"You look dashing, Neal," June said, beaming as he descended the stairs. He was wearing the Devore, his favorite suit, and his trademark hat. It was a big day, perhaps the biggest since he'd had the anklet strapped to his leg almost four and a half years ago. Today was the day baring death or disaster it came off. For good and with the blessing of Agent Peter Burke of the FBI.

It was a momentous day, the end of one life and the beginning of another, and Neal had dressed for the occasion. Knowing the significance of the day, both June and Mozzie had elected to see him off.

"Thanks, June," he replied, reaching the bottom of the stairs and planting a light kiss on her cheek. He had June to thank for the Devore, and the hat, and a lot more than that. She had been a godsend, not only giving him clothes but a place to live. He'd never have gotten through six months of his deal with the Bureau had he been forced to live in the flea-ridden motel Peter had first stuck him in.

But along with an impeccable wardrobe and a great place to live, June had been a loyal friend. She'd never passed judgment for his past transgression, or even his current ones, and was always there to provide sound advice whether he asked for it or not. Again, without her support and words of wisdom, he'd never had survived four and a half years at White Collar.

"Whatever you choose," she said, grasping his hand as her eyes searched his almost pleadingly, "know you are _always_ welcome here, Neal." The reproachful glance she sent to Mozzie told Neal she was fully aware of what he thought Neal should do with a fresh start. Start over. Somewhere else; somewhere _fresh_. "This is your home," she continued, squeezing his hand. Neal hoped the emotional wince he felt at the word _home_ didn't translate into his face. "Tell me you _know_ that."

"I _do,_ " he answered, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze in return. "And it's not like I'm on the next flight out of town, June, I'm just going to work. Peter will be here any minute. I'll see you this afternoon."

Reluctantly, she released his hand. There was a light tap at the window of the front door, and Neal turned to see Peter through the glass. He usually waited at the curb, but this morning he too had departed from the standard operating procedure.

"Speak of the devil," Mozzie mumbled, "and he shall appear."

Both he and June sent him looks of reproach, and June stepped over and opened the door.

"Morning, June," Peter greeted, not crossing the threshold. He looked past her to Mozzie. "Mozzie."

"Good to see you, Peter," June replied; Mozzie only nodded. Neal guessed it was too early in the morning for him to talk to a Suit but then again, according to Mozzie, there was never a good time to talk to a Suit.

He'd said more than once over the past few weeks he was looking forward to the day Neal's life was Suit-free, and therefore, _his_ life was Suit-free as well. But Neal had mixed feelings about that. Being in New York, working with Peter and the team at White Collar had been more fun than any prison sentence had a right to be. As much as he wanted his sentence to be over, his debt to be paid and to be free of the anklet, as that day had drawn near, he'd found himself thinking more about what he was losing than what he was gaining.

Unlike Mozzie, Neal wasn't thrilled at the prospect of a Suit-free life; not if that meant a _Peter_ free life. It was complicated and not just a little distressing. Mozzie, of course, found his ambivalence not only distressing but _disturbing_.

"Choose wisely," he'd counseled, "between what you want _now_ and what you what _most_. Stockholm syndrome may come and go but _freedom,_ " he'd stressed, "is forever."

Mozzie wanted them to leave New York, to try their luck on the West Coast for a while. Los Angelos or maybe even San Jose. He had connections there, contacts who could help them find some action if Neal was ready to get back in the game. Neal wasn't sure what Peter wanted him to do other than to stay _out_ of the game and out of _trouble_. He was getting a do-over, a new start, and he needed to make better choices this time around. That had been _Peter's_ sage advice.

But he hadn't seemed to care whether he made better choices in New York or Timbuktu. He didn't ask him what his plans were if he was staying in the city or leaving. Neal might have resented Peter monitoring his every move, but the thought that the day was coming when Peter would no longer care where he was or what he was doing, bothered him. Peter had been the most constant, most steadfast, thing in his life. He was like an anchor; weighing him down, preventing him from doing what he wanted and keeping him on course. And, in many cases, from crashing into the rocks.

Peter was more than his handler; he'd become his friend and Neal hoped an end to one didn't mean an end of the other.

He'd even thought there was a chance Peter might want him to continue at White Collar as a consultant. Even if it were on a more limited basis, he'd still get to work with Peter, still be a part of the team. That's what he wanted, what he'd hoped for, but today was his last day and Peter hadn't asked him to stay.

Peter, it seemed, was more than content with a _Neal-free_ life.

"Ready?" he asked.

"I've _been_ ready," Neal replied, managing a grin he didn't feel. He'd been doing that a lot lately. "Four years, fours months, six days," he raised his wrist, inspecting his watch, "eighteen hours and...," he carried out the word, frowning at the dial, "...fifteen _minutes_ , give or take." He looked up to find Peter regarding him with a mix of amusement and irritation. "But who's counting?"

"Yeah, right," Peter said dryly. "Let's get a move on. You're mine for another eight hours, and I plan to get the most out of it."

 _Eight more hours._ Neal felt simultaneous excitement and dread, elation and despair. Again, he was torn between what he was gaining and what he was losing. He tried to shake the discontent he was feeling on what should be one of the best days of his life.

 _Should be_ , but so far, wasn't.

"Let me guess," he replied, pulling the door closed before following Peter down the sidewalk. "I'm going to spend the day behind stacks of Mortgage Fraud and Copyright Infringements, aren't I?"

On any other day Peter would have responded by saying _"better behind stacks of files than behind prison bars,"_ but today he didn't.

"You've been around long enough to know those kinds of crimes make up the bulk of our caseload," he said instead.

"But they're _boring,"_ Neal protested, making the same complaint he'd been making since the first time he'd been handed one, "and the perpetrators don't present much of a challenge.'

That was something the two of them had in common; they both loved a challenge. Peter had pointed that out to him the first day they worked together. He'd said it was one reason he'd agreed to accept Neal's offer to work off his sentence with the FBI.

That and, he'd added, he _liked_ him.

"Well, they can't _all_ be art thieves and bond forgers, Neal."

Surprisingly, Peter's tone wasn't one of sarcasm. Was he mistaken or did he detect regret, sadness even? Could it be that Peter, too, was having mixed feelings about today?

They'd reached the car. Neal opened the passenger door as Peter circled to the other side.

"I know that," Neal admitted, "but they _are_ the most fun to catch, aren't they?"

Peter, having reached the driver's door, stopped with his hand on the handle. He met Neal's eyes across the top of the car.

His expression confirmed Neal's suspicion; Peter, too, was struggling with the day.

"Yes, they are."

Maybe he wasn't ready for a _Neal-free_ life after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"You sure about this?" Agent Hughes met his eyes with a steady gaze, pen poised above the page.

Peter had asked himself that same question several times over the past few days.

 _Was he sure?_

He was sure he wanted to make the offer; sure that Neal Caffrey was the best he'd ever worked with. He was also sure, to keep the reputation and success rate it had gained over the past five years, the very metrics that had propelled both he and Agent Hughes a rung up the Federal Ladder, the White Collar Division needed to keep him.

What he _wasn't_ sure of was whether or not Neal would accept the offer.

Even though it had been Neal's idea to work for the bureau in the first place, his offer to do so had been solely motivated by self-interest. And, to be fair, when Peter accepted it, he had been likewise motivated. He hadn't expected the arrangement to last long; Neal Caffrey wasn't one to follow the rules or abide by agreements. When he'd picked him up outside prison over four years ago, and Neal had flashed not only his newly acquired ankle monitor but a victorious grin as well, Peter had hoped he could keep him in line long enough to catch the Dutchman. Anything extending beyond that, Peter felt, was just borrowed time.

There had been times since that day he'd questioned the wisdom of having Neal, bound only by a piece of paper and a tracking device, serving his sentence as a CI. There had been even more when Agent Hughes had verbalized his own misgivings about the arrangement. There had been several occasions he'd summoned Peter to his office, reprimanded him severely and threatened to pull the plug on the whole deal and send Neal back to prison.

But he hadn't. In fact, he'd sometimes even interceded with his superiors, calling in favors and manipulating the system he knew so well on their behalf.

Why had he done so? Because, as he reluctantly admitted, in spite of the difficulties, of Neal's tendency to bend the rules and work outside the acceptable bounds of FBI protocol and Peter's tendency to let him, there was no arguing with the results the two of them produced. Now, because of those results, Hughes had moved up two floors in the Federal Building and Peter, now Section Chief had moved two doors down into Hughes' old office.

Peter suspected there was _another_ reason Agent had intervened. He had, like the rest of the team, come to _like_ Neal. The truth was it was hard not to like Neal but like him or not, no one expected him to complete his sentence outside prison walls. He was brilliant but reckless and his perchance for trouble made that prospect highly unlikely; Peter suspected even Neal had his doubts. Yet here they were, hundreds of cases and almost five years later, and Neal was three days short of doing just that.

Peter had been surprised that as the end of his sentence approached, Neal hadn't mentioned or alluded to it at all. There was no talk of five-star restaurants he'd been deprived of or any teasing comments about visiting Art Museums that were out of his radius. He hadn't even asked whether or not the Bureau intended to honor their bargain or if they'd found some loophole, some past transgression, to use to keep him in the anklet and on the job. It wasn't like _that_ hadn't happened before.

If it had been anyone but Neal Peter might have thought he'd forgotten, had just lost track of time, but he knew better. He remembered Neal's cell, the way the days had been meticulously counted down, mark by mark, on the wall above his bed. At least, up until the day Kate had visited for the last time; there had been no marks after that. Peter had no doubt Neal knew down to the minute when his time would be up but he hadn't brought it up or gave any indication that it was even on his mind.

Finally, unable to wait any longer for Neal to say something, Peter had done so himself. He broached the subject, opened up a door for discussion, but Neal hadn't walked through. Instead, he'd make a vague, a noncommittal comment and let the conversation die. Peter knew he was thinking about his future, planning what he was going to do once he was free, but evidently, he didn't want to discuss it.

At least not with _him_. Peter imagined it was a constant topic of conversation with Mozzie.

In the days following their brief exchange, Peter detected a change in Neal. It wasn't just that he seemed more preoccupied, with everything going on Peter could understand that, but he also became increasingly distant. There was no popping into his office uninvited the way he did at least once or twice a day and he'd declined to join the team for lunch on three occasions. Even when he did come along, he'd said very little and took minimal part in any discussion. He was closing off, withdrawing, and that was cause for concern.

He'd even turned down a dinner invitation from Elizabeth and that never happened. Unless...

"Why do you automatically think he's _hiding_ something?"

They'd finished dinner, the one Neal had passed up, cleared the table and were now relocating to the living room. Elizabeth had known Neal for almost five years; Peter couldn't believe she even had to ask.

"Because it's _Neal,_ El," Peter replied, picking up the television remote from the coffee table before sitting down in the overstuffed chair. "I know him and he _knows_ I do; that's why he's avoiding me."

"Did you ask him about it?" she asked, taking a seat on the sofa. "Ask if something was wrong?"

"What could possibly be _wrong_?" He snapped irritably. "He's less than two weeks from being a free man. He can walk away from White Collar, from New York, and do whatever the hell he wants."

The bitterness of his tone brought a look of confusion to his wife's face.

"But I thought you were _happy_ for him," she frowned. "You even said you hoped he would-" She stopped, her brow smoothing and a look of understanding dawning in her eyes. "That's it, isn't it?" She remarked softly, searching his eyes. "You're afraid he's going to walk away; not just from White Collar but from _you_."

As soon as the words came out of her mouth he knew she was right. That was it. He'd hoped at the end of his sentence Neal would choose to keep the life he'd built in New York, to keep working with him at White Collar not because he had to but because he wanted to. But the day was quickly approaching and Neal hadn't said a word about it.

"I just thought he liked working with me, with the team," he corrected. "I thought he might want to stay but I guess not."

He wasn't bitter; he was disappointed. Hurt even. Neal had become such a fixture at the office, in his life, that he couldn't imagine either one without him. It hurt to realize that without an agreement or a tracking device, Neal had no reason to stick around. He and Mozzie probably had their sights set on an island somewhere. One without an extradition agreement with the States. God only knew what they'd been cooking up.

"How do you know he doesn't want to stay?"

"Because he hasn't _said_ anything," he explained again. "He hasn't asked me what I thought or if I could check into it for him. Nothing. Not a word."

"Have _you?_ "

"Have I what?"

She looked at him in exasperation. "Said anything about wanting him to stay at White Collar."

"Of course not," he replied dismissively. "I can't tell him that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not telling him I want him to stay unless I know he _wants_ to."

"Let me get this straight." Her tone was one of pained patience. "You want Neal to stay but you can't tell him because you're afraid he'll turn you down."

"Or laugh in my face."

"Did it ever occur to you that Neal might feel the same way?" she asked, looking at him like he was daft. "That he might be waiting on _you_ to say something?"

That thought had actually never occurred to him.

"Not really," he answered hesitantly, now wondering if that could be true. "I figured if he wanted to stay on at White Collar he'd tell me."

"And risk having you laugh in _his_ face?" She shook her head. "The two of you are _too_ much alike. Swallow your pride and talk to him, Peter."

"I gave him an opportunity to say something and he didn't," Peter protested. "Now it's up to him to come to me and-"

"It not that complicated," she interrupted sternly, her patience at an end. "If you want Neal to stay, cowboy up and _tell_ him." It stung to have his own words directed back at him. "If you don't, you're going to regret it the rest of your life."

Again, he felt the truth of her words. Elizabeth was right; if he didn't ask Neal to stay he'd never know if he would have or not. He might turn him down but the pain of wounded pride faded faster than the pain of regret.

It was that conversation that had propelled him to action and brought him, paperwork filled out and ready to be signed, to Agent Hughes office.

There were only two days left before Neal's agreement with the FBI came to an end. He still hadn't said anything about his plans and neither had Peter. But he was going to; Friday afternoon when he removed the tracking device from Neal's ankle one final time.

During the morning briefing, Jones had half-jokingly suggested a full-on Anklet Removal Ceremony but both Neal and Peter had quickly nixed the idea. They'd done it simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprise. Neal's cheeks had reddened before dropping his eyes to the sheet in front of him and Peter, feeling his own cheeks burn, quickly moved on with the next item on the agenda. He knew Jones and Diana felt the tension in the air. He was pretty sure everyone in the office did. It had been steadily increasing as Neal's last day approached.

He was saving his offer for the last minute because if Neal declined, the awkwardness that followed would be brief. They'd exchange goodbyes, make promises to stay in touch they wouldn't keep, shake hands, and part ways.

It would hurt to see Neal go but if he did, Peter would know it was because he wanted to and not because he'd been waiting for an invitation that never came.

"Peter?" He looked up to see Agent Hughes, pen still poised above the paper, frowning at him. "I asked if you were sure about this."

 _Was he sure?_

"I'm sure, sir."

"Okay, then." Hughes flipped to the back page of the stapled sheets, signing his name as the Assistant Deputy Director just below where Peter, as the Special Agent in Charge of the New York White Collar Division, had already signed his.

"Neal George Caffrey," Agent Hughes mused, shaking his head as he handed the paperwork back to Peter. "A bonified employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation." The corners of his mouth curved upwards, transforming his perpetual frown into a thin, straight line. It was as close to a smile as the man usually got. "Never thought I'd live to see the day."

Peter placed the paperwork back into his briefcase. "Well, you haven't seen it yet, sir," Peter reminded him, getting to his feet. "There's still one signature missing."

A vital one; Neal's.

"Well, I have faith in you, Agent Burke. After all," the older man's eyes twinkled with amusement, "if anyone can catch Neal Caffrey, it's you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Just as expected, and promised, Neal spent the entire morning reading about some of the most boring crimes ever committed. He sifted through pages of case notes, reports, and statements, noting any discrepancies or details that didn't line up. This wasn't his favorite kind of work, he preferred more active, hands-on operations, but he was good at it. Once he got started and focused in, it was like solving a puzzle. He examined each piece, sorted and re-sorted, twisted and turned it until he found where it fit. It took attention to details, patience, and persistence but, bit by bit, piece by piece, in time he would get the whole picture.

After Jones had delivered the files, Neal had been pretty much left on his own. Ever so often one of the agents, passing in front of him, either entering or exiting the office, would give him a nod or a word of greeting but he saw none of his team except at a distance. He'd caught glimpses of Peter through the window of his office, but he hadn't descended the stairs since he climbed them at 7:45 that morning. Jones and Diana had been up and down them several times, meeting with Peter either in his office or the adjoining conference room, but he had never been invited to join them.

Instead, he'd been kept at his desk, behind stacks of mortgage fraud and copyright infringement while the more exciting, more interesting cases were discussed without him. He tried not to take it personally; after today he wasn't part of White Collar or the team anymore. There was no reason to include him in briefings on ongoing or upcoming investigations. Still, it would have been nice to have been asked to sit in, just in case he had something helpful to add. He had been included yesterday, but not today.

He'd done good work for the Bureau but he'd caused a lot of trouble too. Because of that, and without constant supervision and a tracking anklet to monitor his every move, Peter had come to the conclusion he was more trouble than he was worth; more risk than reward. The sentiment he'd seen when Peter picked him up at June's had been sincere, but it hadn't been enough to make him change his mind.

Whatever hope Neal had had this morning had entirely dissipated by noon.

This was really it; his last day at White Collar. There would be no more looks of irritation when he propped his feet up on Peter's desk. No more looks of pride when he made a connection everyone else had missed. No eating take out in the conference room, going over the last details of an operation. No more cases to solve, no more van duty with Jones and no more threats of bodily harm from Diana. No more being part of the team. He glanced around as people went about their business like this day was no different than any other and yet for him, after today, nothing would ever be the same.

Suddenly overwhelmed, Neal put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and, taking a shaky breath, raked his hand through his hair. This was insane, he told himself. He had to get a grip. Today should be a day for celebration, not despair. At five o'clock the anklet was coming off; he'd have his freedom and a whole new life in which to enjoy it.

That all sounded great, but it didn't feel that way. The problem was he didn't want a new life; he liked the one he had. He couldn't explain it. Not to himself and especially not to Mozzie. He liked living in New York, having a place to call home, a place to _belong._ Not just at June's but here, on the 21st floor of the Federal Building as well. He knew that wasn't what Mozzie wanted to hear but it was the truth. He liked working with Peter; the man who pursued him, caught him and sent him to prison but who still found a way to see good in him. Neal hadn't known how much he needed that in his life until now when he was about to lose it. A lump rose in his throat and he raised his eyes for the umpteenth time to the offices above him.

And locked eyes with _Peter._ Having left his office, he was standing on the catwalk, peering down at him.

Neal felt his face flush. The only thing worse than feeling this way was having anyone know about it. He quickly turned his attention back to his desk, picked up a file, and tried to look busy. He could feel Peter watching him for another half minute before he turned and returned to his office.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It had been a crazy morning. End of the week, end of the month, end of the quarter with a vacation coming up; the paperwork alone was like wrestling a bear. In addition to that, he'd been called about three separate cases as prosecutors worked, like everyone else, to wrap up tasks and clear their desks for the long weekend.

Peter hadn't spoken to Neal since they'd walked in together. Neal had been in a good mood, excited about the day even though he knew it would be spent behind a desk reviewing case files. If he had any reservations about leaving he was certainly hiding them well. He knew practically down to the minute when his time on the anklet, and at White Collar, would be up.

During the morning, any time Peter had glanced down to the end of the office Neal had been at his desk, head down, working on the files Jones had given him. Neal didn't like that kind of work but he excelled at it. Peter had no doubt he would have ferreted out details in the files other agents had missed time and time again. Neal was as good an investigator as any agent in the bureau and better than a lot of them. Behind a desk he was amazing; in the field, he was nothing short of phenomenal. The two of them worked together like well-oiled machinery. They'd even earned the nickname the Dynamic Duo.

White Collar needed Neal. But more than that, _he_ needed him.

He knew their relationship was complicated and he didn't usually give it much thought. It seemed better that way. Neal was a CI, a criminal serving a sentence, and he was his handler, the person held directly responsible it Neal deviated or went off course in any way. But it had gone so far beyond those roles that Peter no longer even tried to rationalize it.

He'd never imagined when the case file had arrived on his desk that he was about to embark on the most exciting and, later, the most fulfilling journey of his life. And finally apprehending his quarry had just been the beginning. He'd joined the FBI to make a difference and though he'd felt he'd done that on occasion, he'd never felt it more profoundly than when he'd taken on the responsibility of Neal Caffrey.

Neal was smart, and he liked smart but more than that he liked Neal. He'd realized that during the three years he'd chased him. He avoided violence, only stole from those he thought could afford it, and was by far the most amiable and generous criminal Peter had ever pursued. He wasn't a bad person; he was just young, impulsive and misguided. Peter liked to think he'd been a steadying force in Neal's life, a compass of sorts that helped him stay on course. Neal was so much more than a criminal; he was a good man and a good friend. If nothing else, Peter hoped their years together had taught him that.

He had learned from Neal, too. He'd never admit it and if he did there would be no living with it, but Neal had enriched his life in a way he'd never thought possible. He'd always found his job challenging but with Neal on his team, he found it enjoyable. Working with Neal not only made him a better agent, but it also made him a better person. He'd learned to compromise, to bend without breaking, and to accept that his way wasn't always the only way. More importantly, Neal had helped him loosen up, enjoy more and laugh more.

Peter didn't want to lose him, not just from his team but from his life, but it was a lot easier to ask him to stay on behalf of the FBI. He had the paperwork in his desk, all it needed was Neal's signature. Since his talk with Elizabeth, he'd been watching more closely for an indication that she was right, that Neal didn't want to leave any more than Peter wanted him to go, but until now, he hadn't seen one.

If anyone knew Neal Caffrey, knew how to see past his smooth and unruffled exterior, it was him. He'd studied Neal when he was watching and more importantly when he wasn't and over time he'd learned to detect when something was bothering his CI. Neal could portray any emotions he wanted with convincing authenticity; that's what had made him such a good con man and now, such an excellent undercover operative. But Peter had learned that real emotions, especially those that shook Neal the hardest, were very seldom put on display. Neal protected them like a dragon guarding its hoard. Where dragons used fire to turn away those who got too close, Neal just turned on the charm, smiled and deflected.

Unless, of course, he was drugged. Then he not only would invite you into his well-guarded lair, but he'd also stuff your pockets with rare treasure, revealing truths and making confessions a lucid Neal would never dream of doing. Those moments had been illuminating, giving insights that helped him decipher Neal's behavior even when his defenses were back and operating at full force.

It had taken years, but he'd accumulated a relatively extensive list of Neal's tells. They were subtle and would go without notice unless a person was explicitly looking for them. They were all that came through Neal's extensive emotional filtering system but, like any distilled substance, they represented the emotion in its purest form. Peter had seen Neal in a variety of situations over the years and had gotten pretty good at interpreting which emotion Neal was hiding behind his placid face, shuttered eyes and bright smile.

He'd watched Neal from the catwalk for several minutes before he'd looked up, blushed and looked away. His body language had been classic Neal In Distress and the expression on his face in the brief moment their eyes had met told Peter Elizabeth had been right; Neal looked positively distraught. He _was_ having a hard time and finally, it was beginning to show. Neal hadn't been avoiding him because he was up to something, he'd been avoiding him because he was upset and didn't want Peter to know it.

While he'd been waiting on Neal to say something, Neal had been waiting on him. Fear of rejection had kept them both silent.

Peter hadn't gone to lunch; he'd worked straight through and so had Neal. He guessed neither one of them had much of an appetite.

The last time he'd asked Neal to join him he'd turned him down but this time, he wasn't taking no for an answer.

He took the paperwork from his desk and grabbed his jacket.

It was time to cowboy up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Noon came and went, and Neal remained at his desk. Clinton asked him to join him for lunch, but he had declined. He appreciated the offer, but there was no way he could eat or manage any kind of conversation. He was just trying to get through the day.

He focused on the work in front of him, at present a suspected case of insurance fraud. There was a small part of him that hoped, if he came up with some new leads, that in the days ahead, Peter would look over his notes and rethink his decision to let him go. But knowing Peter the way he did, he knew that was a very unlikely scenario. It wasn't that Peter doubted his ability to help solve cases and provide valuable insight, he just doubted his ability to stay out of trouble while doing so.

Especially without supervision, a two-mile radius and a tracking device to keep him in line.

What Peter didn't seem to understand was that those things had only curtailed his behavior in the beginning, during that first difficult year. After that, there had been a stronger deterrent at work. First, it was just Peter; then it was Elizabeth and June. It was having something real in his life, something consistent that didn't shift or change every few days, weeks or months. It was having a home, a place to belong. He'd told Peter that, maybe not in so many words, on more than one occasion. It was those things, not an agreement with the DOJ or some electronic tracking device, that had kept him in New York for the past four and a half years.

He wished he could tell Peter the truth, that he liked his life and he didn't want everything to change, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Peter could never understand, not really. He'd always had a home and people who cared about him. He didn't know what a life without any of that was like.

Plus, he'd already made his decision. All an admission like that would do was incur either his skepticism or his pity, and Neal couldn't handle either one. He was losing enough already; at least he could keep his dignity.

But given how close he'd just come to tears that might be easier said than done. He wished there was some way to just bypass the whole end-of-the-day routine he was in for. He'd tried to downplay it, to make it clear he didn't want anyone making a big deal about it. But when it came down to it, when Peter took the anklet off for the last time, he really didn't know how he'd feel or what he'd do.

He loved it when an operation required him to be off anklet. It never failed to bring a smile to his lips when Peter, usually with exaggerated reluctance, unfastened it. It wasn't just the thrill of knowing he could run if he wanted to, it was knowing that Peter knew that as well. Every time Peter removed the anklet and sent him out, he was taking a chance, trusting him to come back. And every time he did, and Peter put it back on, Neal reminded himself it had been his choice.

His feelings about the device were complicated. It had gotten him out of prison but was a constant reminder to him, as well as to everyone else, that he was a criminal and not to be trusted. It had also kept him in place, tied to Peter, until stronger bonds could be formed. Sometimes he hated the anklet because it made him feel trapped and controlled but at other times he was grateful because it connected him to his team, to Peter, and made him feel safe. It seemed odd to him that something could provoke such opposite emotions until he realized they weren't opposites at all. They were just different sides of the same coin and they seemed to mirror his ongoing emotional tug-a-war about Peter's role in his life.

The last day on the anklet was his last day at White Collar, the last day Peter Burke was required to be part of his life. Losing the anklet meant losing Peter and where he'd rejoice at the one, he'd grieve at the other. He prided himself on his ability to hide his feelings, to present a false face even when he felt like his world was falling apart. He knew when the anklet was removed for the final time and Peter met his eyes, it would take everything in him to plaster a smile on his face and pretend to be happy.

But he had to do it. He knew it wouldn't fool Peter, not really; the man had an uncanny ability to see through his pretenses but he also knew he wouldn't call him on it. Today was hard for Peter, too, and just this once, it was best for both of them to let this small act of duplicity go unchecked.

Over the last few weeks, Neal had been trying to distance himself from Peter, limiting the time they spent together to only that which was required to do their respective jobs. He'd turned down offers for lunch and even a dinner invitation from Elizabeth. Today Peter was doing the same thing and likely for the same reason; to make the break as quick, clean and painless as possible. He hadn't even gone to lunch; he'd remained shut up in his office. Neal suspected he'd stay there until the end of the day and then he'd summon Neal to the office for the removal of the anklet.

Neal knew doing it that way was best for both of them. The less he saw of Peter the better. He had just under four hours left at White Collar and only a half dozen more files to work through. Determined to leave on a positive note, he picked up the file of suspected insurance fraud and went to work.

"Okay, Neal, let's go." Startled, he looked up; Peter was standing in front of his desk. He'd been so absorbed in the file he'd been reading he hadn't even noticed his descent down the stairs or his progress up the aisle. His sudden appearance left Neal momentarily stunned. "Move it," Peter continued impatiently. "Get your jacket and come on."

Just like Peter could read him, he could read Peter and he could tell he was uptight. His sense of urgency, coupled with the look of grim determination on his face gave Neal cause for concern. Something was wrong. A number of scenarios rushed through his mind as he got to his feet. Was he suspected of something? Had some past transgression come to light? Was something, or someone, blocking his release?

"Where are we going?" Neal asked, removing his jacket from the back of his chair. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Peter answered, already moving towards the door. "I'm taking you to lunch."

Neal stopped, jacket in hand, as one fear quickly replaced another. "Lunch?"

Peter turned around. "Yeah, _lunch_ ," he replied tersely. Neal started to speak but Peter cut him off.

"And before you say you're not hungry-" he held up a finger in warning, " _don't_."

This wasn't a request; it was an order. Whatever had Peter in such a state, Neal doubted it had anything to do with eating. Not sure what he was in for but knowing better than to argue, Neal slipped into his jacket and followed Peter out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Neal hadn't said a word since they'd left the office and the silence between them was growing more strained by the minute.

This had all seemed much more straightforward in his head. He'd get Neal out of the office, take him to eat somewhere where they could talk, and tell him that if he was interested in continuing at White Collar, he had been authorized to offer him a position as a consultant. Neal would pretend to think it over, ask about compensation, haggle about benefits and the terms of his 401 (K), then grin and accept the offer. They'd both get what they wanted, and that would be that.

Of course, things never went as well in practice as they did in theory and this was no exception. His determination to make things better had made them worse; manifesting first in an abruptness that had frightened Neal, causing the color to drain from his face, followed by harshness that spurred his anger, causing it to flood with color. He'd succeeded in strengthening Neal's defenses instead of dismantling them, adding more obstacles to an already complicated course.

"How about that pizza place in Tribeca?" he asked, breaking the silence as they pulled out of the parking garage. "We haven't been there in a long time."

The food at Stefano's was excellent, but the distance from the office made it an infrequent choice. Only when a case had taken them that direction did they pop in for a meal. Neal liked their pasta, but Peter was more of a slice guy himself. The suggestion was a part icebreaker, part an effort at appeasement.

"Are we really going to _eat_?"

Surprised by the question, Peter looked at his reluctant passenger. "Yes, Neal, I told you; lunch." He frowned as doubt lingered on Neal's face. "Where did you think we were going?"

After a moment of uncertainty, Neal shrugged. "I don't know," he said, shifting his gaze from Peter to the passenger side window. "You've just never _ordered_ me to lunch before."

"I've never _had_ to before," Peter stated firmly. "You didn't leave me a choice, Neal. I've _asked_ you three times this week, and you've turned me down."

"I'm just not a fan of the deli on Worth Street," Neal replied. "Their prices are high, and their food's not that good."

Neal's point was valid and was correct about most of the lunch options located around the Federal Building and Foley Square. It was the convenience of the location that attracted customers, not the culinary fare, and overworked Federal and State employees short on time made up the bulk of their clientele. The food didn't have to be great, but the service had to be excellent. With only an hour for lunch, expedience usually trumped quality.

"So after all this time," Peter observed, "you picked _this_ week to boycott Sergio's."

Sergio's. On Worth Street. White Collar's go-to place for a fast lunch. Neal ate there at least twice a week and had never complained.

Until now.

"Their pickles are limp."

True, but not the point. Their pickles had been limp for four years. "I think you've been avoiding me."

Neal kept his eyes on the passing cityscape. His pause was slight. "Pickles should be crisp" he deflected.

Not deterred, Peter pressed on.

"Because as much as you've looked forward to this day, now that its happening it's freaking you out."

It took Neal longer to respond this time; his voice was unsteady. "And they overcook their chips."

Neal's words didn't validate Peter's observations, but the emotion in his voice did. He sounded close to tears, and it had nothing to do with the state of chips at Sergio's. Neal had made a life in New York. He had a home, a job, and people who cared about him. It was those things that had kept him here, not an agreement with the DOJ or a tracking device, and the prospect of losing them was tearing him apart. Peter knew he was struggling but hadn't realized the depth of his anguish or how quickly his emotional state could deteriorate. He glanced across the seat but Neal kept his face averted.

"Neal." It was a tone Peter used rarely; reserved only for the times Neal was upset, spinning out of control and needed to know he wasn't alone. Firm but gentle, it grounded him and had always brought him back. " _Neal_."

And it did this time as well. Neal turned from the window, his face stamped with distress.

"Please, Peter," he implored. "I don't want to talk about this. I can't-" he stopped with a gesture of helplessness and unable to further articulate, turned away.

"I'm sorry, Neal." Peter's remorse was genuine; he hadn't meant for things to get so intense. They needed to talk but this wasn't the place nor, he now realized, was a crowded restaurant in Tribeca. The topic was too emotionally charged for either of those settings. They needed someplace private and quiet; somewhere safe.

He knew just where to go.

He checked traffic in his mirror before making a quick lane change. "Let's skip Stefano's."

Neal gave an audible sound of relief and after several moments, choked out a word of thanks. After that, they rode in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Peter had missed the rush-to-lunch traffic but was now caught in the rush-back-to-work traffic. His eyes were on the road, but his mind was on his passenger. The past few weeks had been hard for him, but they'd been brutal for Neal. Elizabeth was right; this could have all be avoided if he'd just cowboyed up and asked Neal to stay.

He'd done it before; on the tarmac the day Kate had died.

When he'd learned from Fowler that Neal was about to disappear, he'd been desperate to get to the airfield to stop him. Once there, he'd made an impassioned plea for Neal to reconsider. Not as an agent or as a handler, but as a friend.

That's what Neal needed now; not the job offer he held in his pocket but an invitation from a friend.

The silence lingered until Peter passed the turn for lower Manhattan.

"I thought we were going back to the office."

"Not yet," Peter answered. "We still haven't had lunch."

"I'm not hungry, Peter," Neal protested. "Please, I just want to get back to work."

Peter glanced at Neal. "Never thought I'd hear _that_ come out of your mouth."

Neal shrugged it off. "You said you wanted to get the most of me today, so I'm just trying to oblige."

"Then _oblige_ me by joining me for lunch."

"It's almost two."

"A _late_ lunch then," Peter insisted. "Come on, Neal. I know the perfect place."

Seeing the futility of further protest, Neal accepted his fate with a sign of defeat.

"Okay, Peter, whatever you say," he conceded wearily. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"To raid my refrigerator."

Neal looked at him in surprise. " _What?_ "

"The Burke Kitchen, Neal," he grinned. "Best place in town and you can't beat the prices."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was unusual for Neal to be at a loss for words but nothing about today had been usual.

His emotions had been up and down all day. He'd vacillated between hope and discouragement, excitement and disappointment and he'd made that loop several times since he'd descended the stairs from his apartment this morning.

Since Peter had appeared in front of his desk just after one, he'd added confusion, apprehension, relief, fear, despair, and humiliation to the list in rapid succession. Now he'd moved on to something more difficult to categorize. It was a painful mix of hope and fear, a microenvironment of feelings he'd never experienced before. Cautiously optimistic was too generous of a term; it was more along the lines of _hesitantly hopeful._

If that wasn't a term, Neal felt it ought to be.

When Peter had first issued his abrupt order, Neal thought he was in trouble. Peter was tense and irritable, and since he didn't eat when he was uptight, the lunch invitation that followed seemed suspect. Even after Peter had said nothing was wrong, Neal had still been apprehensive, but once they reached the car, Peter's demeanor had changed. He manner softened, and he seemed genuine to want to share one last lunch with his CI. Peter hadn't been wrong; if he had simply asked, Neal would have declined. When faced with potentially emotional situations, Neal's instinct was to avoid them, and that's what he'd been doing all week.

It quickly became clear that Peter had more on his mind than taking him to lunch; he wanted to talk. Neal knew he'd betrayed himself in the moments Peter had been watching from the catwalk and suspected that was what had prompted Peter's last-minute invitation-slash-order for lunch, but he hadn't expected Peter to actually call him out on it.

Neal tried to change the subject, to deflect the unwanted attention but Peter, being Peter, would not relent. He had a way of cutting through his defenses, and his bullshit, to get to the heart of the matter. And with the precision of a surgeon, a few well-placed observations as his scalpel, that's what he'd done.

Peter knew he'd been avoiding him. He knew he wasn't as ready for freedom as he'd expected to be. He knew he was freaking out.

Exposed and vulnerable, Neal's throat constricted and his eyes began to sting. As he fought to regain control, Peter had called his name, and when he didn't respond, he called it again. There was a calm, understanding persistence in his voice that Neal was unable to resist. He'd turned to Peter, tried to speak, but emotion had choked his words.

Peter backed off, apologized, and nixed the idea of lunch at Stefano's. Neal was relieved. The roller coaster ride over the past half hour alone had left him unsteady and close to tears. He needed time to recover some emotional equilibrium. He still had the anklet removal to manage and the knot of dread he'd felt in his stomach all day had now doubled in size.

The office wasn't the best place to regroup but it was better than sitting across a table from Peter. At least at the office, they were separated by a flight of stairs and a wall; in a restaurant, there would be no escaping conversation nor Peter's discerning eye. His relief vanished when he learned Peter still planned to take him to lunch but when he told him where they were going, Neal was at a loss.

He had reservations about going to the Burke house, he'd turned down a dinner invitation from Elizabeth just last week but he found himself curious as to why Peter had suddenly decided to take him there. It wasn't practical; with the distance and traffic involved, they'd been pressed to make it back to the office by five. Most days, the five o'clock end of the day was more theory than practice but today was not most days. Today at five, Neal would have officially completed his sentence and would be released from the custody of both the New York Department of Corrections and the FBI. He expected the process to be handled in Peter's office, with someone from the Marshal's Office or the DOC present to make sure all the paperwork was in order. Peter would never risk being late for that which, Neal realized, must mean that no one else was scheduled to be there. It was just going to be the two of them.

But if that was the case, they didn't have to be at the office at five for the anklet to be removed; they didn't have to be at the office at all. He'd known Peter wasn't driving all the way to Brooklyn for leftovers, that there had to be more to it than that, and he wondered if what he was thinking could be true.

Had Peter decided to remove the anklet there? And if so, why?

The atmosphere at the Burke house was relaxed and welcoming. It was a place to relax and unwind. It was a place Peter could stop being the SAC of White Collar and Neal could stop being his criminal consultant and they could sit down to dinner as friends. It seemed the least likely place Peter would choose to sever their connection, the office was much more appropriate, unless Peter didn't intend to sever it. Maybe Peter had decided that even if their work relationship had to end, their friendship didn't.

It was that possibility that gave Neal a new glimmer of hope and occupied his thoughts as they made their way across the bridge, into Brooklyn, and toward DeKalb Avenue. Peter made no effort to make conversation and neither did he. Ever so often he'd glance at Peter's profile, trying to determine if he was right or if his own desperate desire was clouding his interpretation of the situation.

Finally, they arrived at the Burke house. As Peter pulled into the drive and switched off the engine, Neal felt his chest tighten in either anticipation or apprehension; he couldn't tell which.

"Why are we here, Peter?" He had to know.

Peter had been about to open the door when the question halted his movement. "And don't say _to eat,_ " Neal preempted when Peter's eyes found his. "Elizabeth's an amazing cook but I know we didn't come here for leftovers. Please," his voice was strained. "Why are we _here?_ "

At first Peter hesitated but then the words came out in a rush.

"Because we need to talk about today, Neal," he said, the urgency of his tone matching the expression in his eyes. "I should've said something sooner," he gave his head a quick shake of self-recrimination, "should have _never_ let it go on this long but I didn't know what you..." He faltered and unwilling to finish that thought, let it drop and tried a new one. "What I mean is," he began, "I didn't know what your plans were and wasn't sure if you'd even consider..." Again unable to complete the thought, he faltered. Frustrated by two consecutive failures to finish a sentence, Peter swore softly under his breath. " _Dammit._ "

The word _Dammit_ was most often followed by the word _Neal_ , but this time Peter's frustration was only with himself. Neal wasn't the only one feeling the strain of the day; Peter was feeling it too. He was trying to say something, something he wanted Neal to hear, but the difficulty of it was getting in his way.

"Consider what?"

He felt the intensity of Peter's gaze. "Staying in New York."

Neal's heart was in his throat; of course, he'd consider staying in New York. It was what he wanted more than anything. All Peter had to do was ask him.

"Do you _want_ me to stay in New York?" Neal pressed him, needing the verbal confirmation.

Peter's eyes softened. "Yeah, I do, Neal."

At Peter's response, the hope Neal had been trying to keep pressed down welled up, stinging his eyes with tears of relief.

"You have a life here," Peter went on, keeping Neal's eyes locked to his own. "A home, people who care about you. Co-workers, friends, family." His nod at the Burke house on the word _family_ caused a lump to rise in Neal's throat. "None of that has to change when the anklet comes off." Peter searched his eyes expectantly. "Unless you _want_ it to."

Neal swallowed hard and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. "I _don't."_

It was all he could get out, but it was enough to bring a look of relief to Peter's face.

"That's good," he acknowledged, reaching over to give his shoulder a quick squeeze, "because I don't either. I don't want to lose you, Neal. Not from New York, White Collar or from my life. I should have told you that sooner."

Neal knew why he hadn't; uncertain as to whether Neal wanted to keep the life he had or to start another one, Peter had been reluctant to express his feelings on the matter. Neal understood that very well; the last thing a person wanted to do was to pour out their heart and have it stepped on. Just like Neal had been watching Peter for a sign, Peter had probably been watching him and today, finally, he'd gotten one.

"Well," Neal offered sheepishly. "Better late than never."

"Now that we've got _that_ settled," Peter continued, "are you ready to go in? I promised you lunch, remember?"

Neal nodded and again Peter was about to exit the car when Neal stopped him with a question.

"So how can that work?" Neal ventured. "Me at White Collar? After today, I won't be your CI anymore."

"Oh, yeah," Peter said, pulling a folded set of paper from his jacket. "About _that_."

With a questioning look, Neal took the document Peter handed him. "What is this?"

"Look and see." Again, Neal sensed expectancy in Peter's voice.

Neal unfolded the paper, skimmed the title quickly, then looked back at Peter. "Is this for real?"

He knew cognitively it had to be, after all, the FBI didn't generate fake documents but again, he was looking for verbal confirmation.

"Yes, it is," Peter confirmed. "Right down to the signatures." He nodded at the paperwork in Neal's hand. "Take a look."

Neal turned to the last page; submitted by Agent Peter Burke, SAC, the document had been approved by none other than Agent Reece Hughes, Assistant Deputy Director. Neal flipped back to the front, skimming through the paragraphs, trying to process the magnitude of what Peter was offering; actual employment with the Federal Bureau of Investigations.

 _A Suit._ Mozzie would have a coronary.

"So," Peter prompted after a moment. "What do you say? You ready to trade in one work agreement for another one?"

"I don't know," Neal answered, unable to keep from grinning. This was everything he'd hoped for and more. "The reference to compensation is pretty vague and I'm gonna need to see the benefits package."

"Of course you are," Peter chuckled, opening the door. Neal followed suit, joining Peter on the walkway. "Pay is based on experience and job performance-"

"Check and _check_." Neal quipped as they approached the house.

Peter sent him a bemused look. "You'll get quarterly reviews the first year, and annual evaluations after that. The benefits are standard," he continued. "Healthcare insurance, paid time off, performance bonuses and a retirement plan."

Neal was still having a hard time believing how the course of his life had changed in a matter of moments.

"How about a gym membership?" he asked as they reached the door. "That's kind of a deal breaker for me you know."

"Really?" Peter asked, opening the door for him to enter. "Any other deal breakers I should know about?"

Neal didn't care about gym memberships, benefits or pay increases. All he cared about was that Peter wanted him to stay, not just in the city but in his life. He wasn't losing everything after all; he was _gaining_ everything. Friends, family, _and_ freedom.

It was a perfect day; a perfect moment.

Neal grinned. "I'll let you know."


End file.
